Like Father and the Son need the Holy Ghost
by Zoraya Windwalker
Summary: It's always a dream. In the beginnin, in the end and even in-between. Rating because there's a mention of blood, and I want to be on the save side .


_Soooo. I have a new story – obviously. It's kinda sad, but it wanted to be written, so I did it anyway._

_No, the lyrics (the bold written stuff) are from the song "I need you" by Tim McGraw feat. Faith Hill. I suggest you listen to it while reading, because it really helps with creating the right mood for this one. Now, HUGE thanks to Em for her beta work (as always!). It's also her fault that I ever started writing a Cowboy Bebop story in the first place^^._

_Disclaimer: I neither own anything about Cowboy Bebop, nor anything 'bout the song I used. I just play with all of it to have some fun. Honest._

_Now, on with it!_

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

**_I Wanna drink that shot of Whiskey,_**

**_I wanna smoke that cigarette,_**

**_I wanna smell that sweet addiction, on my breath_**

She can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to his clothes and skin like an invisible veil.

With her memories newly intact, she knows that she used to hate the smell of cold smoke; used to take a shower and wash her hair after a night out- even if she was still seven sheets against the wind and could barely see straight. There was no hope of sleep, if she caught a whiff of her own hair, reeking like an ashtray.

But as she buries her nose in that tender place were neck and shoulder meet, she inhales deep. The butterflies in her belly whirring to life at the smell that belonged to him.

Then she kisses him, and tastes the whiskey they had both been drinking; thinks it's a little strange that the taste is so strong on him and nearly lost on her own lips, even though she hadn't been behind him a single shot; matching him glass for glass.

But then again, Spike is Spike is Spike, and she fancies that even his blood might taste of his drink of choice.

Blood…

_The _ping, ping, ping_ of ricocheting bullets, the harsh breathing of someone in pain, the rattling of a lung filling up; a metallic taste, blood in her mouth…_

Shaking her head, she comes back to the here and now. He's looking down at her, a question in his eyes. She loves his eyes – that deep, molten-brown. Just then, the light from the single bulb above shines into his face, and one of them looks lighter than the other. A trick of the light of course; why would one eye be different from the other….

_"Look at my eyes, Faye. One of them is a fake because I lost it in an accident. Since then, I've been seeing the past in one eye, and the present in the other. So, I thought I could only see patches of reality, never the whole picture. I felt like I was watching a dream I could never wake up from. Before I knew it, the dream was over."_

"Faye?"

"'S nothing. Was just lost in thought. Some dream I had once, I think…"

She gets a near-predatory grin as an answer, and for the next hour there's no use in even trying to have a coherent thought, much less getting lost in them.

**_I wanna ride 'cross West Virginia_**

**_In the backseat of a Cadillac_**

They wake up just as dawn is starting to paint the night sky a thousand new shades, spilling indigo, pink and gold everywhere, like children painting with their fingers.

It's beautiful, and it helps to chase away the cold of the packed earth they're lying on.

Looking around her, she realizes that it's not just any nameless piece of dirt they're on. If she looks closely enough, she can still make out the lines she'd drawn in the earth some… what, days... weeks… months ago. She can't quite remember when, but then again, she can't quite put her finger on when (or how, come to think of it) they arrived back on Earth.

A cold wind blows across the barren place, and she presses closer to his warm body, throwing an arm across his chest. With the change in position, she can now make out a red convertible. There are bullet holes in its doors.

_Blond hair, flying about an oh-so-lovely face. Black-clad, long legs, running fastfastfast, needing to get away. A rumbling voice, telling the story of a tiger-striped-cat…. _

With a smile she ignores that. She must have dreamt it. Julia is just a faraway memory for Spike. He let go of his first love… they both know he would've died if he kept on chasing after her.

She sends a silent prayer up to the stars above, hoping (_knowing_, in some part of her brain) that Julia would never darken their doorstep. Not ever.

**_So I need you_**

**_Like a needle needs a vein_**

**_Like my uncle Joe in Oklahoma need a rain_**

**_I need you_**

**_Like a lighthouse on the coast_**

**_Like the Father and the Son need the Holy Ghost_**

Xoxoxoxoxo

**_I wanna get lost in some corner booth_**

**_Cantina, Mexico_**

**_I wanna dance to the static of an a.m radio_**

They're in some bar she can't quite remember the name to. There's an old radio on the corner of the counter. A _really_ old one, like she remembers from her childhood. It's playing some cheesy country piece; she knows this kind of music isn't done anymore and revels in the fact that she doesn't have to listen to jazz for a change.

She likes the fact that she could talk her man into a slow-dance even more. So they're in the only free space (not a dance floor, but nobody is sitting or fighting there, so it counts, she guesses), swaying to the music. There are no real dance-steps behind what they're doing. Hell, they're barely even raising their feet enough to do more than standing at all. But they have their arms wrapped around each other, they ARE moving, and their clothes are still on. In her book, that counts for ten waltzes where Spike is concerned.

His eyes are half-lidded, as if he's about to fall asleep or dreaming already…

_"Why do you have to go? Where are you going? What are you going to do, just throw your life away like it was nothing?"_

_"I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out if I'm really alive. I have to do it, Faye."_

She snaps her eyes back to him as he touches her face. The warmth of his palm against her cheek is all the proof she needs that this is reality. How could it not be?

So she takes his hand in hers and they leave the bar for the cheap motel room they have rented for the night.

**_I wanna wrap the moon around us_**

**_Lay beside you skin on skin,_**

**_Making love 'til the sun comes up_**

**_And the sun goes down again_**

Xoxoxoxoxo

The next time she wakes, they're back at her imaginary childhood home. Spike is lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, staring up into the stars. She follows his gaze, and sees one of them shining brighter than any other. It has a greenish hue to it, and reminds her faintly of his hair when the sun shines directly on it.

"What are you thinking about?" Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, as if there's not enough breath left in her lungs, but she ignores it for now. She probably screamed too much, somewhere between the bar, the hotel, and here. With a satisfied smile she has to think about how _good_ Spike is at making her scream (in all sorts of ways).

"Hm… mostly 'bout how odd it is that I'm in a dream, when I thought I was done with that."

There's confusion written on her face but he is still looking up, so he can't see it. Though he knows her well enough by now, to know it's there.

"You _know_ this isn't real, right?" There's genuine curiosity in his voice and it scares her just a little.

"What are you talking about? Who would dream about lying around, buck-naked, in the desert?"

A shrug, and then he's finally looking at her. His eyes look strange. The same, only… not.

"See, this is what I can't quite figure out. Either it's your dream or it's mine. I'm guessing yours; we keep coming back _here_, and the place doesn't mean a thing to me. Also, I don't think I should be able to dream anymore."

She pauses to think about what he said, and decides she can answer nonsense with nonsense, because this whole conversation was convoluted anyway. "But if it is a dream – _my_ dream – you wouldn't be able to think for yourself now, would you? Or have you suddenly turned psychic and can wander dreams?"

Another shrug, accompanied with a lopsided grin. "Don' know. I think I died though, so now I'm just waiting for something else to happen. Thought I might as well see where this leads me."

She sits up then because… talking about being dead?! Not that big of a turn on. When she scratches at the earth under her fingers, it sounds vaguely metallic. Not important right now because obviously Jet has been cooking with strange ingredients again, Spike is very likely stoned. Or something. But she can play along until it wears off.

"Ah. So you're dead and I'm asleep in my bed, having naughty dreams about you? You _are_ aware that this doesn't make much sense, right?"

He's sitting up too now and looks at her with sad, sad eyes that make her want to cry.

"I never said anything about a bed. Or sleeping, for that matter."

He looks at her so intensely, that she has to avert her eyes to keep from getting lost in them.

There's something tightening in her chest, and it's hard to breathe past it. But come hell or high water, she would _not_ start to cry in front of him.

"Faye? I know this is hard, but you need to leave now, or you'll have to follow me."

"Leave? Where to?"

"Back home. You need to get back."

_"….Come back, damn woman. Don't you go away too…"_

Jet? She could've sworn she just heard Jet's voice. He isn't supposed to be anywhere near here! He's supposed to be… to be… on the Bebop! Jet is home on the Bebop, in its familiar hallways. And then all is back, just like that. Their standoff on the Bebop, the memory of how she empties her clip, the feeling of a ricocheting bullet burying itself in her chest.

She hadn't said a word to him and he had turned around and walked away before he could see the blood spreading like a blooming flower.

She remembers falling, feeling the cold of the metal floors. Now that she thinks of it, she notices the taste of blood on her lips; it's even stronger than the Whiskey she had been drinking not that long ago.

When she looks back at him, his eyes are mismatched once more, but this time – the first time, ever – they're both seeing her and her alone.

"I'm dying." The words trigger some external senses, and she can feel the metal floor of the Bebop under her, can taste her own blood on which she is choking, outside of this dream.

"Yeah. So snap out of it and go back, or you won't be dying, you'll be _dead_… too."

She blinks at him, and when his words penetrate the fog she seems to be in, it's _her_ eyes that turn sad. "Ah. Sorry about that."

Shrug – always with the shrugs, with him.

"It's alright, I guess. Least now I know what's what."

She nods because, yeah… this kind of makes sense, with him. But the pressure in her chest gets tighter and tighter, and it's really hard to take a breath now so she thinks about doing what he's trying to make her; it feels empty, the thought of going back without him.

By the look on his face, she knows her thoughts are written plainly on hers.

"Faye…"

"Don't. Just… don't."

Then she leans in and kisses him squarely on the mouth. After a moment of hesitation he kisses her back, and then their arms are wrapped around each other. When the taste of blood changes back into the rough and smoky one of whiskey, she crawls onto his lap. The feeling of the ground under her knees starts to morph from metallic to earthen once more and she winds her fingers through his hair, and soon the pressure on her chest eases.

Somewhere far off she hears the sound of a synthetic fist slamming into a wall. Hears swearing to hide the mourning that's hidden in there.

And finally, there's a second bright star joining the one above them. There's nothing but the taste of whiskey, the smell of cigarette smoke and the feel of his skin on hers.

**_You know some Cowboys like me go out like that._**

**_-The End-_**

**_Well. I hope you liked it, even a little bit? I just thought the song fit Spike and Faye perfectly. Especially the very last line, so I wrote a story around it. _**

**_So long,_**

**_Zora!_**


End file.
